


Walk through your dreams and invent the future

by tallestgirlonearth



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, monastery AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:22:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28913043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tallestgirlonearth/pseuds/tallestgirlonearth
Summary: Two men meet in a monastery in the Galician countryside. Their minds could not be more different, but their souls are the same. What will it take for them to truly find, and stay, with each other?
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 11
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya Berlermo crew - long time no activity but I am back with a new story!
> 
> For those of you who read my story about the nine muses ("Oh Mnemosyne..."), this is a continuation of the monastery AU I wrote in chapters 7 and 8. For those of you who have no idea what I'm on about: In this AU, Andrés is a monk and Martín is an architect specialising in restauration of medieval and ecclesiastical buildings. They meet and the rest, as they say...well you'll read all about it here. This story gives you Andrés' POV, for Martín's side of things you'll have to go back to the other one.
> 
> Title from a Richard Siken poem, I adore the man.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think :)

The peaceful calm of an early spring morning in the Galician countryside is a beautiful experience. There’s dew on the plants, a hint of winter chill still clinging to the air, birdsong slowly rising up from the undergrowth as the world slowly awakes. Around 3am every day, the sound of a bell can be heard, signalling that the inhabitants of the _Monasterio de San Julián de Samos_ are readying themselves to do God’s work.

 _Vigils_ is by far the favourite office of Padre Andrés, known as Andrés de Fonollosa in his previous life. Sure, it’s so early in the day it’s still at night and it’s the longest of the Benedictine offices. But it’s also an hour during which the friars at the monastery only raise their voices to sing psalms. Vigils, and the following _lectio divina,_ are the only time during the day Andrés can truly focus on himself. He is aware, of course, that a monk is not supposed to spend a lot of time wrapped in his own thoughts – after all, he relinquished all earthly possessions when he chose this life, just as he gave up the notion of individualism. Here, at San Julián, the only things that matter are community, the position the individual monk occupies in God’s large garden, and how he can utilise this position to do right by Him and his creation.

Still, Padre Andrés likes to just sit and be every once in a while, to check in with himself, listen to his inner voice and find nothing but content. If nothing else, it is a welcome reminder that choosing a godly life was right, because he can remember a time when there were storms of greed and passion whirling inside him.

Padre Andrés has a past, just like anyone in this monastery. It’s not a secret and he doesn’t deflect when asked about his previous life, but he doesn’t volunteer information, either. He isn’t proud of it, even though it has led him to where he is now.

_Blessed is he_ _  
whose transgression is forgiven,  
whose sin is covered.  
Blessed is the man  
against whom the Lord does not count iniquity,  
and in whose spirit there is no deceit_

Today’s selection includes Psalm 32 and it’s yet another sign that God moves in mysterious ways, because it fits Andrés’ inner musings. There was plenty of deceit in the life of Andrés de Fonollosa – in fact, it was his livelihood and greatest pleasure. An art thief of substantial talent, he created personas at will to charm wealthy heiresses, old white men blinded by their own importance, and greedy gallery owners, all to worm his way into their good graces and to get access to the most beautiful works of art humankind ever created. Along the way, his charms worked well enough to seduce some of the aforementioned heiresses and women of good standing (and maybe there were some men of not-quite-so-good standing as well). Sometimes, Andrés was so convincing that he fell for his own lies about romance, marriage and a glamorous life together. He ended up in front of a priest five times, swearing till death do us part, so when he first donned the Benedictine habit, he was very well aware of the irony. 

As far as iniquity went, there was plenty in Andrés de Fonollosa’s world.

Still, he would have continued just like always, sucking the marrow out of life, had it not been for a single phone call. His little brother, Sergio, completely shaken from his usual unflappable (and boring) calm, telling him in quick, disjointed sentences, that their mother had fallen desperately ill.

To this day, Andrés remembers that moment, and all the ones that followed, with a startling clarity.

Sergio, reading out medical terms and only interrupting himself with sharp, panicked breaths. Begging him to leave his current wife and his current project (intertwined as always) behind and come to Madrid as soon as possible.

His mother, in a drab hospital room, a shadow of her former self.

Her frail bones and waxen skin no longer enough to contain her life energy as she exhaled, softly, for the last time.

He’d always thought happiness was the only worthwhile pursuit in life, so why is it that all the moments of supposed bliss are blurry and insignificant, while he recalls every single second of abject misery in the wake of his mother’s passing?

Just a stray thought at first, but the beginning of a transformation that led to Andrés de Fonollosa leaving his previous life behind to become Padre Andrés.

It seemed an outlandish choice, even considered by the standards of an eccentric life thrown into turmoil, but had no partner, practically no family, and what was the point of stealing beautiful art when he had nobody to admire it with, nobody to show off to? Dedicating his life to God, the creator of all things, was a way to find meaning, and if it didn’t pay off in this life, then maybe his efforts would be appreciated in the next.

A convoluted reasoning maybe, but it made sense to him, so he sold his real estate, fenced what artwork currently was in his possession, put his finances in order and moved to San Julián de Samos. The monastery is beautiful, his old life can’t reach him here, and the abbot respects his inclination towards the fine arts and allows him to work in the library and sing in the choir. Leading the chants at Vigil or Compline is enough to satisfy the ego that he never quite managed to subdue.

Even against his own expectations, he’s happy here.

And now that the abbot has decided to do something about their dilapidated church and secured enough funds to hire an architectural firm from Madrid, things actually could become, dare he say it, lively.

_When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place_

_what is mankind that you are mindful of them, human beings that you care for them?_

_You made them rulers over the works of your hands; you put everything under their feet._

The reason for a quite unprecedented level of excitement at the monastery is the arrival of one Señor Martín Berrote and his troupe of construction workers.

The man comes highly acclaimed and is said to have quite an eye for the restauration of clerical buildings, not to mention a talent for handling his workers and running a construction site with maximum efficiency. What he does not possess, however, is tact.

Berrote is loud, brash, and – for all his intelligence – acts like a bull in a china store. He doesn’t see why he should be nice to clients, since they’ve hired him for his work, not his charm.

Yes.

He said that aloud, on the phone with somebody at his company.

Andrés doesn’t quite understand how a man like him got the assignment to work on their chapel and Berrote’s lack of refinement doesn’t sit well with him. Nevertheless, the man does seem to be able to reign in his workers, who are even more, ahem, plebeian, and he hasn’t upset the abbot’s delicate sensibilities. Yet.

Another point in his favour (not that Andrés keeps a tally) is Berrote’s dedication. He stays behind after hours to pore over elevations and building plans plans and consults the library for information on what the chapel used to look like.

One day, he even stays until Evensong, and when Andrés and his fellow monks raise their voices in praise of the Lord, he can see all tension leave Berrote’s body.

Seeing the other man appreciating their music so openly makes warmth spread in Andrés’ stomach. He doesn’t examine it too closely, deciding it is satisfaction that his vocal talents don’t go unnoticed.

His eyes stray to Berrote again when the monks file out of the chapel after the service has ended, if only to gauge his reaction to the performance. Their gazes meet and – Andrés doesn’t know what it is, but something passes between them. A short moment, an understanding of sorts found in the other man’s eyes which are a startling blue…This is probably the moment when Andrés acknowledges that he is observing not because Berrote sticks out like a sore thumb, but because he finds the man intriguing.

He’s not the only one.

After the architect’s first appearance at Evensong, he becomes an almost regular fixture, and the normally so staid abbot warms up towards him to an astonishing degree. He comments about how Berrote is certainly well-educated and even seems to enjoy immersing himself in the monastery’s library – the underlying _he’s not quite as unrefined as I would have expected a layman to be_ goes unsaid. Andrés hears it nonetheless and is quietly amused by the hint of snobbery in his abbot’s character. Several days later, the older man approaches Andrés after the office of None.

“Oh, Padre Andrés, I was just about to visit our architects in the chapel. Would you like to come along?”

Of course, Andrés can move freely within the monastery, he could just visit the chapel himself. However, this would mean to willingly and purposefully engage with an outsider, a layman, which is somewhat frowned upon at San Julián de Samos. The abbot’s invitation therefore seems more like tacit acquiescence on the abbot’s side, a sign that he trusts Andrés’ intentions and does not mind a little interaction with somebody other than a brother monk. As such, Andrés seizes upon it.

“Of course, Father Abbot. May I inquire whether there is a special occasion for the visit?”

“Oh, not at all, my dear son. I merely find it fascinating to see how man’s work restores God’s glory for all to see. And I just happened to talk to Señor Berrote the other day, and he mentioned how much he liked your singing at the Evensong.”

Well then.

They walk over to the chapel when the afternoon classes are finished, the abbot makes the initial introductions and some smalltalk, and then leaves them alone.

Señor Berrote, no, Martín as Andrés is allowed to call him, casually enquires after the intricacies of Benedictine life, some of which he still finds baffling after weeks spent at the monastery, and Andrés willingly answers his questions. In the process, he learns that Martín is about as lapsed as one can be, but he still manages to appreciate the intellectual efforts of the monks. He’s also very fond of music, both popular and classic alike. He draws a striking comparison between the construction of a building and the composition of a song, and when it’s time for Andrés to leave, they part with amicable words and the promise to talk again soon.

It’s been a while since Andrés last moved outside the church’s structures, and he has never had much taste for social conventions anyway, but he feels like this could be the beginning of a genuine, if surprising, friendship.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected frienship blossoms, but it can't ever become more. What happens once Andrés realises he's in too deep?

The next days and weeks pass in much the same way, except for one small, but marked difference. During those few precious hours of free time between Verspers and Compline, Andrés usually wanders outside to the construction site for a chat with Martín. They’re on a first-name basis now and have easily settled into a rhythm of casual familiarity. Martín is a witty and engaging conversationalist, and the difference in their lifestyles makes Andrés open up to him far more than he would with any of his brother monks.

Even holy men can judge you, and it doesn’t really matter that they do it with loaded glances instead of sharp words.

Martín doesn’t judge.

When Andrés tells him about his failed marriages, the other man just shrugs and answers, “I wouldn’t know about any of that. I’m gay, I’ve never understood women and I don’t have the patience for stupid heteronormative social constructs.”

When Andrés finally tells him that when he said he was “an art dealer of sorts”, he actually meant, “I stole art and then either kept it for myself or fenced it for ludicrous prices”, Martín just stares at him, then breaks into uncontrollable laughter.

“Are you _serious_?”

Andrés rolls his eyes with a very put-upon expression. “Well, no. I’m playing confessional here because I enjoy the rites so much.”

Martín calms down a little, enough to take a breath and reply, “Sorry, I’m sorry, Andrés, it’s just… you’re a _monk,_ for Chri- for crying out loud! You have to admit it’s hard to imagine anyone here having a life prior to this” – a sweeping gesture at their surroundings – “not to mention such a _seedy_ past. It’s a terrible cliché, just terrible. And, honestly, it’s hilarious.”

Another eyeroll, but at the same time a small smile steals across Andrés’ face. He can’t deny his relief that his newest acquaintance doesn’t think he’s a bad person, that Martín isn’t shocked by the man that still lies somewhere beneath the veneer of a monk’s existence.

The days pass and eventually Andrés can’t really remember what life at _San Julián_ was like before he could spend his afternoons with Martín. Those first shared confidences between them only made way for more, even deeper conversations, and one afternoon, Andrés dares to approach the subject of Martín’s lifestyle – not his sexuality, but his choice of foregoing any relationships and seeking men out in bars and clubs instead.

“Forgive me for bringing this up, Martín, but it hardly seems like the best way to find love.”

Martín gives him a saucy grin.

“Well, Padre, then you’ve clearly never watched Casablanca.”

It’s a deflection, clear as day, and Andrés doesn’t fall for it.

“Actually, I have, but is this really what you want? Grand gestures and excitement?”

“No. But you made the mistake of assuming I’m looking for love in the first place. I’m not.”

Normally, Andrés would pass such a statement off as bluster. He’s always kept himself apart from others and their petty concerns, first out of arrogance and then out of the need to remain a mediator through the faith, but he has learned one thing: All humans are looking for something – they might not want to call it love, but it amounts to such nonetheless.

But Martín’s face is impassive, his eyes equal amounts determined and dull, and Andrés recognises the glance of a man who has been deeply hurt. Hurt in body, maybe, it’s not entirely out of the question with homophobia still prevailing in some pockets of society, but even more so in spirit. Andrés sees a man whose soul has been so trampled and squashed that he has given up looking for _more_ , looking for a higher meaning, a special something in like. He’s given up, period, and only exists on what crumbs of satisfaction quickly come his way.

It’s not a sustainable way to live. Andrés really wants to help Martín find a way out of this rut, and isn’t that an interesting insight? It’s not unusual for a man of the church to want to help people, but Andrés mostly leaves the community service to his brothers.

So what is it about this man that speaks to Andrés on such a deep, almost visceral level?

The sharp intellect is one thing, sure. But more than that, Andrés is fascinated by how Martín is so unapologetically _himself,_ even though the world may hate him for it. He’s entirely open about being gay, he’s loud and brash and so very Latin-American, and he goes out and parties as if he were still in his early twenties. It’s an unconventional life, and most people would say it’s not a life a thirtysomething-year-old man would lead, but Martín doesn’t care about any of that.

In a way, Martín has distanced himself more from society’s expectations than Andrés was ever able to. And Andrés wants nothing more than to give the man some assurance that no matter the path he has chosen for himself, he’s still worthy of happiness, of love. He shouldn’t have to be satisfied with simply being content.

It’s a sobering realisation that hits Andrés while he is elbow-deep in dishes after lunch. Surrounded by silence, his mind quietened by the steadfast monotony of monastery life, he slowly comes to the conclusion that here, at last, is the feeling he always longed for.

A love so selfless that he doesn’t even think about what it might do to him.

For the first time in his life, he wants to put someone else first, wants to make someone else happy.

He ruthlessly suppresses these thoughts all day, during prayers, during work, until night falls and he is able to unpack them in the quiet of his cell.

Why?

Why _now_?

Why has God chosen to give him this gift at a time where he can no longer accept it, bound as he is by a set of vows for which there is no easy divorce?

Andrés spends the rest of the night lying awake, praying the rosary again and again, mulling over the concepts of love and temptation, which all of a sudden have become very real to him. 

The next day, he feels sluggish and entirely unable to keep up with Martín, so he lets the other man talk, only offering an apology for missing their conversation the day before. He genuinely regrets not meeting up, because Martín’s team will be finished with their work at San Julián in two weeks’ time and he really shouldn’t waste the time he has left with his friend.

Except friend sounds too trite a word after Andrés’ realisation, and why should two weeks matter, when their entire acquaintance is tinged with hopelessness now?

He spends the days in a haze, the routine of monastery life his only tether to reality, and the nights praying for a solution to his dilemma.

Of course, there is no solution to be had, or at least none he will consider. Andrés de Fonollosa has always been a man of honour, even as a thief, and he will not break his vows.

They meet for the last time on a clear and bright spring morning inside the chapel, the place that has brought them together. There is so much that should be said, so they both stay silent and only exchange a few platitudes. When they can’t draw it out any longer, they hug, for the first and the last time. The superficiality is excruciating, after all the shared confidences of the past week. The body contact is worse, and Andrés cannot wait to for the moment to be over.

He hasn’t accounted for Martín to be as stupidly outspoken as ever, even though he really should have.

“Andrés.”

Martín inhales shakily, radiating nervousness and desperation.

“I...you know I’ve never had any belief in anything. I’ve told you all about my life, more than a man of God would probably like to hear, but... Well. You never judged, you just listened. And you’ve changed me, more than you realise. You’ve changed my beliefs, because I...I didn’t expect to find someone like you here in this place, I never expected to find someone at all…”

Martín trails off, at a loss for words, but it doesn’t matter, the Pandora’s Box is open. They are both adrift in the middle of all their issues swirling in the atmosphere around them.

“Please…Martín, don’t…don’t say it. Don’t ask, don’t cross that line because there’s just devastation on the other side.”

It’s as close as Andrés has ever gotten to begging. He knows where this is headed and that this mess of emotions they have gotten themselves into _cannot_ be verbalised. The ramifications would be earth-shattering.

Andrés looks at Martín’s tear-streaked face, fully aware of how wet his own eyes are and that Martín can surely see the devastation he feels. Even if he does, he once again proves how deep their understanding of each other runs, because he just nods and walks out.

Andrés is left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one last chapter coming and we'll jump quite a bit into the future. Keep your eyes peeled :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There has only ever been one person in the entire world who, not bound or beholden to Andrés in any way, saw him and accepted him and chose his company…and that person left Andrés, over two years ago.
> 
> Can Andrés find that person again, and what will happen if he does?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. I want to thank everyone who left kudos or commented - the knowledge that this fic is seen and read and appreciated means a lot!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this final chapter :)

“I’m very sorry, Señor- Padre Andrés, I wish I could have given you better news.”

Under the watchful eye of his doctor, Andrés sits, numbly, trying to digest the diagnosis he’s just been given as well as process what this means for his life.

Helmer’s myopathy.

The same sickness that made his mother’s last years absolutely miserable. That will also make his life miserable.

Does he even have years?

He should probably ask that.

It started a couple months ago. His body had gotten used to the rigorous rhythm of Benedictine life, but all of a sudden he felt more tired, tired all the time. Working in the garden seemed to be more exhausting than ever before, and sometimes he couldn’t keep the strength in his hands. As much as he wanted to ignore the subtle changes, he wasn’t fool enough to do so when his family had already had their brushes with incurable diseases. Indeed, his GP referred him to a specialist soon after.

And here he is.

Completely alone.

His father, long gone. His mother, lost to the same disease. As for his younger brother Sergio…he lost touch with him years ago.

As for acquaintances or even friends? He left no friends behind when he abandoned his old life, only ex-wives and enemies. The brothers at San Julián are tolerable companions, but theirs is a bond forged out of necessity, not by choice.

There has only ever been one person in the entire world who, not bound or beholden to Andrés in any way, saw him and accepted him and chose his company…and that person left Andrés, over two years ago.

Martín.

Martín Berrote, a beautiful, terrible, wonderful architect all the way from Argentina, who came to the monastery for work but ended up changing Andrés’ life forever – and at a time when Andrés thought he had experienced all the world could give him.

In the days before his doctor’s appointment, Andrés actually thought it was the weight of overwhelming loneliness that dragged him down. That, and his guilt, because even though nothing ever happened between him and Martín, nothing physical anyway, Andrés knows that he’s emotionally involved – he is betraying his vows to the order because a sizeable part of his heart is elsewhere and not devoted to God.

He supposes it should be a relief, that he has a diagnosis and the option to at least alleviate the symptoms for a little while, but what good would prolonging his life be, when he still has to face the absence of the man who could be his soulmate every day?

“Thank you, doctor,” he says absentmindedly, interrupting the man’s prattle about further tests and medication. “You’ll understand, any decisions are not entirely my own to make, I will have to speak to my abbot, and make my plans in keeping with monastic life.”

“Yes, of course, Padre. Please do, just bear in mind…time is of the essence.”

Time.

Yes.

“How long, doctor?”

“I’m sure you understand that there are no certainties here, Padre, but in the interest of providing…a guideline, I’d say two years. Three if treatment goes well.”

Andrés knows that “if” qualifier doesn’t matter. His life is already over, all that remains to be decided is when his body will quit functioning.

He leaves the practice sluggish in body and numb in mind.

_\---_

Upon his return to _San Julián,_ Andrés keeps quiet about his doctor’s appointment. He’s fully aware that his decaying physical capabilities have most likely been noticed and that he won’t be able to hide his illness for much longer. The abbot will have to be informed and they will have to make a decision about his duties, and about how much longer he can even take part in everyday monastic life, before somebody will have to look after him. His options will be limited, but he wants to make up his mind anyway – he’s still a ways from complete incapacitation and wants to remain in control as much as he can.

Over the next days, he quietly does his duties, endlessly debating with himself. He knows what happens to the infirm in the order; they get sent to retirement homes for the clergy or to hospices. Neither sounds particularly appealing. He can’t remain at San Julián for his remaining time however, his brothers lack the knowledge and the time to take care of him.

He contemplates suicide, but decides against it. Even though he used to be far from a saint, he won’t disrespect the teachings of the Church so fundamentally, not when he chose this life and when the Order, this community especially, gave him a home and a purpose during his darkest time.

The last remaining option doesn’t seriously enter into consideration until his ruminations begin to start causing him migraines, but it is with that in mind that he finally approaches the abbot.

“Padre Andrés, I don’t know what to say…the Lord has given you a heavy cross to bear.”

“Yes, Father,” Andrés nods, “and I will bear it. I know what will happen to me, I’ve seen the illness in my mother already. But…I do not want to be a burden on anyone. And this is why I’ve come to you, to talk about how my life will change in the coming months.”

The abbot steeples his fingers together and looks at him pensively.

“Of course, you are right, my son. I cannot deny that our community at _San Julián_ does not have the resources, or the knowledge, to take care of a gravely ill brother. We do not want to cast you out, but sooner or later a relocation will be inevitable.”

“I am aware, Father, and I understand. I will be very sorry to leave San Julián, but…I have already thought about where to go.”

“Have you”, the abbot asks, a shrewd expression in his eyes.

“I thought it best to be upfront, Father.”

“A quality you are certainly known for.”

Andrés can sense the shift of the mood. The abbot has dropped the rather customary “my son” and addresses him like he would a layman instead – polite and imbuing the conversation with the quiet grace Andrés has learned to recognise as a monk’s calling card, but without the familiarity and joviality he usually reserves for members of the community. The possibility that they both know where this conversation will turn to gives Andrés the push he needs to plow on under the abbot’s scrutinising gaze.

“What I am going to request is highly unusual, but…simply put, Father, I am not the type to wither away in a nursing home. I have left my old life of hedonism behind, but I still want to get something out of life. I want to be of use, for as long as I can, and when that is no longer possible, I would like to at least not be alone, left to my devices, and only checked on when it’s time for dinner or medication.”

He’s being circumspect, still holding back and not giving a name to the thing he wants, but the abbot understands him nonetheless.

“It is unusual, Padre Andrés, because this level of individuality you desire is not part of our philosophy. So let us put an end to the obfuscation. What you want, Padre, is a dispensation from your solemn vow.”

Yes. That’s exactly what Andrés wants, even though the solemn vow of the Benedictine Order is, well, indissoluble.

“Please understand, Father, I am not thinking about taking up my old ways. I could never, not after the time I have spent in this community and been enriched by its teachings. I will live the rest of my days in the spirit in our Lord and Saviour, but…I don’t think I can do it here.”

Andrés could say more about his motivations, but he doubts it would help his case. He certainly can’t tell the abbot that he craves a connection to another human – not necessarily in a romantic way, although he wouldn’t mind that – because that need is deeply selfish and not befitting a person who is supposed to be devoting all their efforts on other people. So he stays silent and tries to beg the abbot with his gaze only.

Finally, the man speaks up again.

“I believe you, my son. I have watched you leave behind a life of sin and devote yourself to God in a way that, frankly, I believed you were incapable of. But you persevered, and became a valued member of our community. For that reason alone I would be sorry to see you leave. Let me just ask one question of you, and please answer it honestly – is it a knee-jerk reaction after receiving bad news that makes you want to receive a dispensation?”

A fair question, but entirely unnecessary. Andrés is strong-willed and less cool and detached than he would like to be, but he has never been a fool rushing headlong into the next best endeavour. He wouldn’t have survived his past life otherwise.

“No, Father. The diagnosis was a shock, but as I said, I have used the days since to think about my options. I know my request is unusual, but…think of it as the last wish of a dying man.”

A few beats of silence, and then the abbot hoists himself out of his chair, circles the desk and comes to stand in front of Andrés.

“Very well. I will write to my superiors about your request, and inform them that I support it. Until then, may I trust that you keep quiet about this matter, and do your duties as per usual?”

Andrés just nods. Relief and numbness flood him in equal measure. His wish will be granted and he will be free to once again seek the company that he craves. But it’s entirely out of his hands whether he will find it.

_\---_

Andrés blinks against the sunlight and looks up at the tall Neoclassicist building in the Palos de la Frontera neighbourhood in Madrid.

Ever since he talked to his abbot at San Julián, this moment has been everything he’s worked towards for months. Obtaining the dispensation was an uncomfortable process, since he’d grown fonder than he was willing to say of his life as a Benedictine brother. In the end, though, it was easy, because he took the responsibility of caring for a dying man from the order, and his abbot was quite willing to fulfil what he claimed to be his last wish. (It’s close, but not what he truly wants for his last blessed moment on Earth.)

Finding his footing in the secular world required some adjustment, but with a substantial sum of money from his old days laundered and waiting for him in a bank account, he could rent a modest flat, get the treatment he required to at least keep the symptoms at bay, and focus all of his efforts on finding Martín.

_His first port of call had been the firm, and thankfully he recalled the name of the chatty, annoying younger associate. Daniel had been surprised to hear from a monk he met by chance months ago, but he’d been happy to talk to Andrés, even though he couldn’t offer much insight. He mentioned how Martín seemed to spiral after the job at San Julián, being absentminded at work, turning down projects he previously would have fought tooth and nail for, how he became almost a shadow of his former self._

_“I mean, I’ve known him ever since I started at the firm, you know, and he always had some low periods where he kind of seemed to shrink in on himself, but it was never that bad.”_

_“Did he say what happened?”_

_“No”, Daniel replied apologetically, “he wasn’t much of a talker at the best of times, at least not about personal stuff. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it must have been something at the monastery, because he was fine before. Are you sure you don’t know anything?”_

_Andrés tried to stay calm and unaffected as he answered in the negative._

_“Like I said, Daniel, I recently left San Julián for personal reasons, and since I’m in Madrid, I’ve been trying to reconnect with some acquaintances.”_

_“Yeah, of course, I get that. And I’m very sorry I can’t be more helpful, but I haven’t heard from Martín since he left the firm about a month ago.”_

_That particular fact hit Andrés like a punch in the stomach. He was more than aware of the pride Martín took in his work, how it was the only constant in his life. What it must have taken for him to leave that behind, Andrés could only wonder._

Andrés finally takes the few steps to the big entrance, if only to get out of the late September sun, and begins to scan the doorbell nameplates. Towards the top, he finally finds what he is looking for – a hastily scrawled ‘Berrote’ in the man’s characteristic edgy handwriting. His next step should be to ring the damn bell, but Andrés’ subconscious takes him back to the last conversation that provided the missing puzzle piece.

_“Andrés…I almost can’t believe you’re actually here.”_

_“Sergio, brother dear, I know it’s been a while. Where did you think I was?”_

_“In prison, for example?”_

_Years of cultivating contacts and sniffing out the most minuscule details about people’s lives had led Andrés to ask Daniel Ramos about any other friends Martín might have had, and the junior associate actually remembered a name. Martín’s best friend, a mid-level financial risk analyst. Sergio Marquina, he was called, and he worked for Santander Private Banking._

_When he heard his younger brother’s name, Andrés almost choked on his own breath. What were the odds? Later that evening, in bed, rehashing the information Daniel had given him, Andrés wondered whether this was the divine sign, the hint that higher powers actually did exist and were working for Andrés to make amends and bury old grievances before his time was up. Why else would his younger brother turn out to be the best friend of the man Andrés loved?_

_It hadn’t been difficult to find a phone number for Sergio Marquina among Santander’s employee directory, and with sweaty hands and a nervously rabbiting heart, Andrés had reached out to his brother. Contrary to Andrés old persona, before all the misfortunes and the retreat to a monastery, Sergio had never been an intimidating man. He was gentle and shy, but underneath all that he still had a spine, and that was the prime reason for Andrés’ anxiousness._

The doorbell rings and rings, but nobody answers. Just as Andrés is about to turn around and leave, an elderly lady opens the door and, upon seeing his hand still resting close to the nameplate, addresses him.

“If you want to visit Señor Berrote, you should come back later. About 7pm, that’s when he returns. He’s usually…out all afternoon.”

The slight pause gives Andrés enough of a clue that the neighbour disapproves of wherever it is that Martín spends his afternoons at, but he thanks her nonetheless. He has about two hours until Martín is supposed to show up – a brief grace period for him to mull over what he’s going to say when he finally meets the man he’s been looking for. He will have to tread carefully, Sergio told him as much, and if he doesn’t, his younger brother will come after him like all the hounds of hell.

_“So you’re the – I should have known. Really, I should have. It’s typical for you to wreak havoc on somebody’s life and then just leave whenever it suits you.”_

_Andrés’ brief interjection that it was Martín who left the monastery didn’t do much good._

_“Of course he left, you imbecile!! His life is here, in Madrid. What did you expect was going to happen? Him joining the ranks so you could live cell to cell and discuss Gregorian chants until the end of your days? Por favor!! He’s gay, the Catholic Church denies his very right to exist; obviously he was going to get out of there.”_

_Again, Andrés tried to put the situation into perspective by pointing out that he never made any promises to Martín, nor did he ever allude to any feelings there might have been._

_“Come off it, Andrés! Martín is no fool and he can read people just as easily as you. He fell for you because he recognised a kindred spirit in you, even though he knew that nothing was ever going to happen. He’s been trying to get over it and I’m not going to let you waltz in and destroy any progress he might have made.”_

_Sergio’s tone had been angry, but his words gave Andrés pause._

_“You don’t sound all that sure that he has gotten over it.”_

_“That’s because Martín is a fool, you’re very evenly matched that way”, Sergio snapped back. “You actually think I’m going to help you find him when you’re going to bite the dust in a few years’ time? Why would I add to his troubles like that?”_

_It had taken Andrés a couple of steadying breaths and a line of argumentation more logical than he’d ever known himself to be, but eventually he had managed to convince Sergio. Martín and him had connected, against all odds, and now here he was, terminally ill, yes, but free of any obligations, free to find Martín and give him all that he could not before. And wasn’t that something? The possibility to assure Martín that his feelings were returned, had been all along? The possibility to make him happy, even if it was just for a few years?_

_Sergio had relented at that, but not without informing Andrés in graphic detail what would happen to him if he ended up breaking Martín’s heart again._

Andrés returns to Martín’s doorstep at 7pm on the dot and finds that one of the residents has left the door slightly ajar. He slips in, too cowardly to announce himself by ringing the bell, and struggles up the steps to the sixth floor, where Martín’s flat is located. The effort it takes is just one of a few reminders that he has to get this right, because he is running out of time.

He knocks on the door, as firmly and decisively as he can. Strands of music drift out, some Eighties beat that first gets quieter, then stops completely. A few steps can be heard, and then the door opens.

Since that last phone call with Sergio, weeks have passed on top of the months it has taken Andrés to even get to this building, but as it happens so often in life, when faced with their true desire, few really know how to proceed. So he just stands there, dumbly, and stares at the man he has missed so much.

Martín still looks the same, but also _doesn’t_. His hair is still a dark brown, but it’s unkempt. His eyes are still a deep crystal blue, but they’re bloodshot. He’s still beautiful, but he looks like he’s lost several pounds, tired and exhausted in a way that he wasn’t at the monastery, not even with all the responsibility he had.

The silence is deafening, and Andrés almost wishes the music was still playing – just so he could focus on something else, instead of all his senses being hardwired to the man in front of him. He can hear the tiniest hitch in Martín’s breathing, and he sends a quick prayer to the heavens.

_Please, fill my words with kindness, so that when I open his wounds, it’s so I can stop the festering and make them heal._

“Martín.”

It’s a paltry offer, just a name and nothing else, as if there weren’t whole soliloquies to dedicate to this moment, but Andrés thinks if he doesn’t make the first step, they will stand here in this frozen tableau forever.

And he doesn’t have that much time.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here? Missionary work, _Padre_?” Martín’s tone is equal amounts biting and incredulous. He draws his shabby satin robe tighter around him and pushes his chest out, sending a mix of messages that tell Andrés that he hurt this man, badly, and that he can’t hope for an easy way out. But that’s alright, he’s no longer Padre Andrés, he’s Andrés de Fonollosa again, and he can be as tenacious as anyone. So he fixates upon the most pertinent detail of Martín’s reply.

“I’m not a member of the Benedictine Order anymore, Martín, so if you really want to address me with a title, I believe ‘Señor’ would do.”

His flippancy really is uncalled for, but at least it has the desired effect of riling up the man in front of him enough to show some true feeling.

“Is that so? Well then, Señor, I don’t give a fuck about titles or anything else, and as a matter of fact, I didn’t want to address you at all, because I didn’t want you here. I don’t want you here. So the question remains: What the _hell_ do you want?”

“I want you.”

Honesty is a dangerous tool, and can provoke all sorts of reactions, good or bad, so Andrés has always used it sparingly. Here, he doesn’t have anything to lose but stands everything to gain, so he might as well tell Martín the truth right from the start.

“I know what I did to you, by letting you leave that day, and that I have no right to even a part of you, but please hear me out. I have some things I want to tell you, and I’m begging you to listen to them. Whether you believe me, that’s up to you, but…” he trails off, unsure of how to drive his point home even more.

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to be necessary. Perhaps it’s the begging that did it, but Martín steps aside wearily, and lets Andrés into an apartment that is equally as spacious as it is rundown. Architectural models and elevations occupy every surface, as does the layer of dust – it gives the place an eerie, hazy feeling, like it is suspended in a moment neither here nor there.

In the middle of the room, Martín comes to a stop, arms across his chest in a show of defiance. “You wanted to talk, so talk.”

How to summarise the past two years and several months of uncertainty and heartache? Andrés thinks it’s almost impossible, but he has to try.

“I know I hurt you, when I let you leave the monastery, but at the time I didn’t know what else to do. What we had, it was so good because you were there every day and I could enjoy your company, but then your time at the monastery was up and you actually – you tried to tell me how you felt, and I was overwhelmed. It sounds like a weak excuse, but I really was. Every relationship I ever had, they were all so different. I used to be the one calling the shots, making the declarations, and the very fact that you could overwhelm me shows how much you turned my life upside down. You’re the first man I ever felt something for – and all of that after I’d sworn to abstain from any romantic connections for the rest of my life. It had been years since I even kissed another person, and then you came…”

Andrés knows he is rambling, but something must have gotten through to Martín. His posture is still closed-off, but there is a flicker of _something_ in his eye.

“What are you trying to say?”

“What I’m trying to say,” Andrés laughs, a little desperately, “and I’m really trying, and probably screwing it up, is that I return your feelings, Martín. I did then, I do now.”

Again, an oppressive silence blankets the apartment, but this time Andrés doesn’t try to fill it. He’s had months to think about his next steps, to think about finding Martín and laying his heart on a silver platter for the man, it’s only fair that Martín should get the time to let these news sink in. After all, having a monk confess to romantic feelings is a lot to wrap one’s head around.

Finally, Martín regroups.

“And you think coming here to make a grand gesture is going to fix anything? I can’t have you, and you decide to make it worse by dangling your _feelings_ in front of me like a damn carrot? I was doing okay before you appeared here, what gives you the right of fucking with me even more?”

His voice has gotten louder and louder and Andrés is afraid Martín will work himself into a frenzy, so he just interrupts him.

“But you can! You _can_ have me, didn’t I just tell you? I’m not a monk anymore, not a priest or anything, just a man. A man who is in love with you, if I haven’t made that sufficiently clear. It’s all up to you – send me away or have me, for the rest of my life, and tell me how I can make amends for breaking your heart. You just have to choose. I’m here.”

His affirmation hangs in the air between them, fills the room, and wraps itself around both of them, and finally, _finally,_ Martín lets out a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“You really mean it. Don’t you?”

Amen.

“Yes. I really mean it.”

They tentatively step closer, so Martín can inspect Andrés’ face, and this time, Andrés doesn’t hold anything back. He lets a smile steal across his face and soften his features, and he tries to convey all his love with his gaze.

“You said, ‘for the rest of my life’. Not ‘our lives’.”

In spite of the seriousness of their situation and the undeniable sorrow he will once again bring on Martín, Andrés can’t help but laugh, lightly. His architect is so clever, he understands Andrés so well that he can pick out the tiniest nuances in his words.

“I did. You see, I’m going to keep my word on everything I just told you, but there’s one slight hitch.”

Martín stays close to Andrés, but his face is carefully blank once again.

“What hitch?”

“The rest of my life will be quite short. I have Helmer’s myopathy and my doctor gives me about two years.”

To his enormous credit, Martín blinks, and then gathers himself in a matter of milliseconds.

“Your mother’s illness?”

“Yes. I got the diagnosis not long ago, and it gave me the push I needed to finally come and find you. Now, I understand if this is too much, if you don’t want to look after a man who has one foot in the grave already. If this is a deal breaker, it’s alright, I won’t hold it against you.”

Martín scoffs, and now he looks angry.

“The only thing that could be a deal breaker here is your penchant to obfuscate and be dramatic. I meant what I said, too. I love you, and I _choose_ you. I will spend whatever time we have with you, and it doesn’t matter whether you’re spry as a teenager or stuck in a wheelchair. I don’t care. The only thing I want from you is honesty, about everything, at all times. Don’t try to protect me. Don’t be a martyr. Can you do that?”

In the face of Martín’s utter certainty, all Andrés can do is nod mutely.

Martín nods back, tugs at Andrés’ collar and crashes their lips together.

It’s been months since Andrés last sung a choral, but in this moment, he is sure he can hear angels sing.


End file.
